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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031573">Bitter Water</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The West Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e21 Gaza, F/M, Gaza, Gen, Just Talk You Idiots, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, god bless donna moss., jk this is rated t for disturbing imagery, josh but not as emotional constipated, these hands are rated e for everybody, this one goes out to donnaslyman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 02:01:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031573</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh pulled back after Germany. A full 180 from the weird closeness they developed in the hospital, to a purely professional coolness. Josh asks how she is, sometimes, but that’s it. Otherwise, they exist in this liminal space where none of their usual chatter and banter fills up the silence, and Josh lets her go at normal times. </p><p>Sitting at her desk, digging for Advil in her purse and wondering if the intern she yelled at's crying in the bathroom, Donna rubs her neck and blinks back her own tears. </p><p> She’s never felt more alone. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Josh Lyman/Donna Moss, Pre-Relationship - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>189</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bitter Water</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ok I just realized the timeline here is wack and that I still have CJ acting as press secretary when she was already CoS, so let’s pretend that was on purpose yeah 😂?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Donna’s not one to lose her temper. </p><p>Josh is; he gets tired and runs his hands through his hair and says stupid, hurtful things he doesn’t mean, and then his eyes widen as he realizes, and sometimes he tries to walk it back, and sometimes he holds onto it, proud and upset with himself- though not enough to apologize. </p><p> </p><p>Donna wasn’t raised in a barn, but instead in rural Wisconsin in the 80s which meant she was told to bite her tongue and smile and make sweet, even when she was seeing red from anger, embarrassment, rage. </p><p> </p><p>She wishes often that she was more like Josh. Flying off the handle, angry rants at the top of his lungs, dead fish to Congressmen who won’t fall in line. Everyone knows exactly when they’ve pissed Josh Lyman off. Donna, for the most part, seethes in silent anger and pain, white-knuckling folders and blinking back tears. </p><p> </p><p>But she doesn’t lose her temper. </p><p>Usually. </p><p>So when a new intern doesn’t get a  House bill to the right people on time, and Donna, already on edge from an uncomfortable tight feeling that’s taking up her entire thigh, snaps,“It’s not that hard, Erin, God. If you can’t do it, this isn’t the place for you”, she takes notice. </p><p> </p><p>Erin, 20, red-haired and a little naive, looks at Donna with unmasked hurt behind her eyes, biting her lip hard. Erin’s used to brusque tones from other staffers, from Josh, even Toby or CJ, but she’s clung to Donna like a younger sister since her orientation, and she steps back like she’s been slapped. </p><p> </p><p>Donna looks at her, opens her mouth to say something, apologize, but Erin’s already rushed out of the bullpen, and Donna’s left leaning against her desk, one hand gripping her hip tight. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong?” Josh sticks his head in, drops a file on her desk.</p><p>“Nothing,” Donna says shortly. </p><p>Josh seems to study her for a moment. Half of Donna wants him to pry. Half of her desperately wants him to drop it. </p><p>“Okay. Can you sit in on my meeting with Stackhouse? Want your input on the housing bill.” </p><p>Donna nods, and Josh leaves. </p><p>That’s about the extent of their interactions these days, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>Josh pulled back after Germany. A full 180 from the weird closeness they developed in the hospital, to a purely professional coolness. Josh asks how she is, sometimes, but that’s it. Otherwise, they exist in this liminal space where none of their usual chatter and banter fills up the silence, and Josh lets her go at normal times. </p><p>Sitting at her desk, digging for Advil in her purse and wondering if Erin’s crying in the bathroom, Donna rubs her neck and blinks back her own tears. </p><p> </p><p> She’s never felt more alone. </p><hr/><p>It’s not that Donna can’t fall asleep. </p><p>She can. She’s rarely had trouble with it. On the first campaign, she fell asleep everywhere- campaign buses, desks, Josh’s shoulder. </p><p>It’s the staying unconscious part that’s hard. She begins waking up, 3, 4, 8 times a night. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes the last memories of the dream that woke her slips away within seconds and she turns over and goes back to sleep.</p><p>Most of the time, though, her face is wet with tears, and she’s tangled tightly up in her sheets. The dreams don’t vanish, then. </p><p>Sometimes she’s suspended in the air, milliseconds after the bomb went off. Sometimes she loses her leg. Sometimes she dies, choked by her seat belt, the smoke. </p><p>Sometimes Josh is sitting in Fitzwallace’s seat. He aspirates on his own blood, upside down, while she watches. </p><p> </p><p>After those dreams, she usually stumbles to the bathroom, scared she’s going to throw up whatever she ate for dinner. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>She’s lost weight. She doesn’t mean to.  Her GP and PT have been encouraging her to add calories to her meals- healing is not an easy process- but it’s hard. Everything makes her nauseous, uncomfortably full. It’s far easier to sip at a black tea and pretend she was too busy to eat that day.</p><p>She knows this because CJ stops by her desk, a few months after she gets out of the wheelchair, and gifts her a sweater that she wanted to give to her niece, but realized was too small for her. </p><p> </p><p>When Donna tries it on, it hangs off of her in uncomfortable places. She stares at the mirror for a second, at the scars peeking out from her wrist, her yellow-ish skin, the parts of her hair that haven’t fully grown back in, and rips off the sweater as quickly as she can. </p><p>It stretches unforgivably at the collar. When CJ asks, Donna thanks her warmly and demurs, promises to wear it soon. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Some days are harder than others. </p><p> </p><p>Some days CJ says a word in her briefing that hits her spine like an electric shock, and she has to dig her nails into her hand to not freak out in the middle of the bullpen. Ginger, beautiful woman, starts to come by as soon as a briefing is about to start, and sits on her desk and chatters inane gossip at her the whole time. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. Just fills Donna’s mind with words that don't mean anything, so she doesn’t hear the words that do. </p><p> </p><p>Even so, some days are hard. </p><p> </p><p>Today is one of those days. She’s been sitting at this desk too long; she can tell, because her leg has already fallen asleep, and painful pins and needles are pushing their way into her heel. </p><p> </p><p>“Donna?” </p><p>Josh leans in. </p><p>“What?” (She doesn’t mean to snap. She should tell him that.) </p><p>“Nothing.” He raises her eyebrows. “Just… are you in pain?” </p><p>Donna clenches her nails into her palm and forces a smile on her face.</p><p>“I’m fine.” She says. </p><p>“Donna, I saw you, you look like-"</p><p>“Josh,” she interrupts him. Erin is at her desk, her ear turned ever so slightly to their conversation. “I’m fine. Go, you’re late for staff.” </p><p>“Okay.” He doesn’t believe her. “Whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>That night, when she’s laid up on her side, a pillow clutched to her chest and every heating pack she had laid on her from hip to toe, she wishes Josh had pushed a little harder. </p><p> </p><p>He’d dropped everything to fly to Germany. He’d been there, stayed at her side for days. But Colin has been there too, and that was apparently enough for Josh to justify not putting up too much of a fight when he left for Camp David. To pull away, when she got back. </p><p> </p><p>Donna is furious, furious. She buries her head in the pillow and wills herself to not throw up. For three months after Rosslyn, she’d practically lived with him. Changed his bandages, managed his meds. Caught his PTSD. She’d been right by his side and now’s 3 AM, and she’s alone, desperately alone, wondering why, god, why, oh god, did she survive? </p><p> </p><p>Hot tears soak her comforter, and for all her anger, Donna thinks, she just doesn’t want to be alone anymore. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Donna knows something’s wrong. So she brings it up to Kate, who she doesn’t know very well, but who has a deep steadiness in her manner that only comes from years of managing trauma and sadness. Kate recognizes it immediately. She doesn’t name it, but Donna can see from her eyes that she recognizes it, and she writes down the names and number of a good psychologist for Donna. </p><p> </p><p>Donna takes the paper and stuffs it into her purse. </p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t call the number. </p><hr/><p>She’s sitting in the bullpen. It’s late, everyone’s gone save for the usual suspects. Josh is holed up with Matt Skinner, who came over on the pretense of arguing about a parental leave ornament on a Childcare funding Christmas tree, but Donna can hear laughter and the sounds of a football game from his office, so they’ve definitely devolved from there </p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t care, all that much. If she goes home, she’ll sleep like the dead for all of twenty minutes straight. So why not stay at work, reading and re-reading a policy briefing until her eyes bleed. Like always, there’s eight million TVs on. All are muted but the one tuned to CNN, and Donna is barely listening. </p><p>That is, until she hears the name “DeSantos”. </p><p>She looks sharply up, and her heart is already starting to speed up, so Donna takes a steadying breath in. </p><p> </p><p>A pre-recorded Mrs. DeSantos is on the screen, at a memorial event for her husband. The program cuts to an anchor, and Donna hears fragments of words. </p><p>“-Congressman DeSantos was killed this year in a car bombing in Gaza that claimed the lives of three other people, and-“</p><p> </p><p>Donna can’t tear her eyes away. It’s like she knows what she’s about to watch, but everything hurts every day anyways, so maybe this pain will be different and a change is as good as a rest. </p><p> </p><p>She sees the footage. She can almost see herself in the window, turning back from waving to Colin. There’s a flash of white across the screen, and then orange and red bloom in the wreckage of a flipped SUV, and very suddenly, Donna wonders how two tons of steel came to be crushing her leg? </p><p>She tries to stand up, but she can feel flames licking her neck and someone’s screaming in her ear. Something slips and smashes against the desk, and there’s a sharp pain in her palm. </p><p>Donna inches down her desk until she’s on the ground, both hands gripping her thigh. </p><p> </p><p>The floor is flickering between bent metal and carpet, and in between, she realizes what broke was her mug, the sharp pain is a cut on her hand. There’s an odd moment of ironic clarity. She wonders if this is her broken window. </p><p> </p><p>There’s still screaming, someone’s talking to her-Colin? Trying to get to her? </p><p>“-Donna, Donna, can you hear me?”</p><p> </p><p>Yes, she thinks miserably. Yes, but she can’t breathe, and she definitely can’t respond. She’s going to die here. </p><p> </p><p>Someone is lifting her, almost carrying her, and then she’s being deposited on a couch. </p><p>“-with me, in, out, in, out-“</p><p>This makes her angry. She can’t breath. She can’t. How could she possibly-</p><p> </p><p>Someone has her hand, someone is placing her hand square on their chest. A heartbeat. Steady. A little fast. She feels the subtle movements as they breathe. In. Out. In. Out. </p><p>Her throat opens a little. A bit of air escapes into her lungs. The air is less smoke and kicked-up dust and more staled ventilation. </p><p> </p><p>She curls her fingers up and finds ridges under her fingertips, bumpy skin, disrupted. </p><p> </p><p>Josh. </p><p> </p><p>Donna cracks her eyes open. Josh is kneeling in front of her, his hand holding hers to his chest, and he’s staring at her, wide-eyed.</p><p>She tries to speak. Her throat is painful, every muscle in her body is trying to protest her movement. </p><p>Josh relaxes a little, it seems. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay.” He says softly. “Just take a moment.” </p><p> </p><p>Donna wants to burst into tears again. She doesn’t move her hand, but swipes roughly at her face. </p><p>“Breathe,” he says. He lets go and she closes her eyes. </p><p>She does. </p><p> </p><p>A minute of breathing, eyes closed, and every muscle in her body seems to realize she’s not in mortal danger and relaxes. She falls back onto her couch and realizes she’s in CJ’s office. </p><p> </p><p>“How-“ her voice catches in her throat. “How did I get here?” She asks. </p><p>Josh returns, hands her a bottle of water. </p><p>“I took you,” he says. “I don’t have a couch in my office.” </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Her hands are shaking too badly to open the bottle, so Josh takes it and opens it for her. She takes one sip, waits to see if her stomach revolts.</p><p>“Do you have…do you have medicine?” Josh asks haltingly. </p><p>He doesn’t say it. Donna knows what he’s talking about. She used to carry around a small baggie of white pills for him, only very recently stopped. </p><p>“No.” She says. That would require a diagnosis, which would require talking to someone. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe, maybe you should..?” </p><p>“Yeah.” Donna says simply. </p><p>All the fight has been leached from her body. She’s exhausted. Her leg is aching with a silent urgency and she desperately wants to just take a painkiller and drug herself unconscious. </p><p> </p><p>“Josh.“ </p><p>Donna whips her head around. Matt Skinner is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets. </p><p>“Oh my God,” Donna groans, mortified. “Did you-did you see all of that?” </p><p>“Donna, it’s fine,” Matt says. “It’s really alright, I’m not gonna say anything to anyone.”</p><p>“He won’t.” Josh promises, hopping off of CJ’s desk. “He’s a nice Republican.”</p><p>“Also you’ll kick my ass.” Matt says dryly. “I promise, Donna.” </p><p> </p><p>Donna smiles, a little. Matt has always been one of her favorite congressmen, stupefying association with the GOP aside. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think Josh could kick your ass if he tried.” She says. She hears an indignant “<em>hey!” </em>from behind her, and Matt grins. </p><p>“I hope you’re feeling better now, anyways. Josh, I’ll call you tomorrow?”</p><p>“Sure. Have a good night, Matt.” </p><p>“You too.” </p><p> </p><p>Matt waves and disappears down the dark hallway. </p><p> </p><p>Donna sits back for a minute, waiting for Josh to make a dumb comment, start talking about his meeting, what they have tomorrow, try and talk himself out of this. Instead, he pulls out CJ’s chair, sits down across from her, and studies her.</p><p> </p><p>“So,” he says. “How long have you known you have PTSD?” </p><p> </p><p>Donna startles. The word alone sends a course of chill through her veins. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Josh gives her a look. </p><p>“I haven’t been diagnosed.” She amends. This is weird. They’ve barely talked in a week. But by god, Josh is looking at her with concern and affection and all she wants is to be able to sleep at night and who cares anymore? </p><p> </p><p>“Who are you seeing?” Josh asks, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “I could get Stanley to refer you someone better, my therapist has-“</p><p>“I-I haven’t seen anyone.” She says quietly. She picks at the fabric of the couch. </p><p> </p><p>“Donna,” Josh’s voice is soft. “You have to.”</p><p>“Well, that’s just great, Josh, where was all this concern six months ago when I couldn’t walk?” She snaps. </p><p> </p><p>Silence. </p><p> </p><p>Donna looks up and finds Josh staring at her open-mouthed, a mixture of clear guilt and hurt on his face. </p><p> </p><p>“I-“ he starts. </p><p>“Don’t.” Donna says, rubbing her temples. </p><p>“No, I-” Josh holds out a hand, looking at her with that extremely distinct expression that means he knows he fucked up and doesn’t know precisely how to climb out of the hole he’s dug himself into. “I-I thought you needed space.” He says helplessly. </p><p> </p><p>Donna wants to laugh. She has no clue what she wants, but it’s definitely not that. She rubs her thigh absently. </p><p>“You didn’t give me space, Josh.” She says, refusing to meet his eyes. “You totally ignored me.” </p><p> </p><p>Out of her peripheral vision, she sees Josh look down at the ground. </p><p>“I-I just.” he says haltingly. “I was the one that sent you.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh, Jesus. </p><p><br/>“Josh, please don’t bring out your guilt complex right now. I chose to go. You didn’t force me to do anything, and unless you planted that car bomb, you didn’t cause anything either.” </p><p>“I know, I just. I guess I thought you wouldn’t want to see me. I fucked it up.”<br/>“Yeah,” Donna says. “I’ve needed you.” </p><p> </p><p>Josh looks like he’s on the verge of tears. He clearly wants to say more. Donna’s just exhausted. </p><p> </p><p>“I have to sleep.” She says, getting up. </p><p>“Did you metro today?” He asks.</p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>“Let me take you home.” </p><p> </p><p>Normally, Donna would fight back. But she doesn’t have the energy tonight. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” She says tiredly. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Josh is an idiot. He’s stupid. He’s real stupid. For a guy who's been chronically overachieving since birth, he’s a fucking dumbass. </p><p> </p><p>Donna was so lost when he found her on the floor by her desk. So scared. </p><p> </p><p>So traumatized. </p><p> </p><p>As if Josh doesn’t have the symptoms of Post-traumatic stress carved into his skull. He should have realized. He should have realized months ago. But somewhere, in his stupid, twisted psyche, he thought she was being cold because she was angry at him. God, he’s stupid. Is this not post-Rosslyn Christmas breakdown: the sequel? </p><p> </p><p>Of course she’s been having flashbacks. What else? Irritability, check, fatigue, check. Is she...has she been having nightmares? </p><p>There were so many nights he woke up, blood in his mouth from biting his tongue too hard, hands searching to find a bullet wound long healed over. </p><p> </p><p>Is that what Donna is suffering through now? </p><p>How did he miss it? </p><p> </p><p>It’s 1 AM, and he’s slumped on her couch, in the sweatpants and t-shirt from the clothes he used to keep here. Of course, once he got here, he insisted it was too late to drive to Georgetown and he’d get kidnapped and killed if he tried it, and that she had to let him crash on the couch. That made her snort and hit him, but she looked like herself for a moment, so it was a win. In truth, he was terrified to leave her alone, visions of broken windows and emergency rooms dancing in his head. </p><p> </p><p>The door to the bathroom opens and Donna pads out, barefoot in boxers and a sweatshirt, the light from the bathroom illuminating her from behind. She’s taken off all her makeup and pulled her hair into a bun, and she just looks exhausted. Josh never noticed that the cut by her hairline healed into a thin pink line. </p><p>Josh is about to wisecrack about the boxers, until his eyes travel a little further down. </p><p> </p><p>Massive scars come out from underneath the boxers and travel nearly down to her ankle. They intersect her thigh: large, neat surgical incisions bisected by disorderly scars. It’s not totally healed, not a white bumpy line like Josh’s is, 5 years post-op. It’s purple and raised, and looks massively painful. </p><p>She’s been only wearing pants and long skirts with thick stockings since the accident. Josh realizes why. </p><p> </p><p>He swallows and looks away, but Donna has already caught him staring. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re ugly, huh?” She jokes, twisting her leg out like she’s modeling. It only makes the muscle atrophy more obvious. </p><p>The immediate thought on his tongue is that nothing could make her ugly, but that won’t work.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re badass, Donna.” He forces a grin. “Chicks dig scars, you know.” </p><p>Something about this situation, one of them in borrowed clothes, about to sleep on the couch late at night, makes it easy to revert back to what they used to be. </p><p>“Unfortunately, guys not so much.” She says. It comes out like a joke, but her eyes are a little vacant. </p><p>“The right one will.” He says firmly. “Just stop dating Republican jackasses.” </p><p> </p><p>She looks down at him, and her smile seems a little rueful. </p><p>“How about Matt Skinner?” She asks. </p><p>“Oh sure,” Josh says. “You can date Matt. He’s no threat.” </p><p> </p><p>Donna laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“Goodnight, Josh.” </p><p>“Goodnight.” </p><p> </p><p>She closes her bedroom door behind her, and Josh flops back on the couch and pulls a blanket over himself.</p><p>His mind is racing, scouring over six months of memories to figure out what he missed with her, what did he ignore? </p><p>He’s still buzzing with questions when he finally falls asleep. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>Josh wakes up two hours later to dead silence and darkness enveloping him, and it takes a second to figure out why he’s awake. And then he hears it again. </p><p> </p><p>A whimper. </p><p> </p><p>Josh sits ramrod straight up on the couch and turns towards the closed door of Donna’s bedroom, straining to hear if somethings wrong. That proves futile as he hears a hoarse scream. </p><p> </p><p>Heart in his throat, Josh leaps over the back of the couch and throws open her door. </p><p> </p><p>She’s asleep. </p><p>She’s twisted in her sheets, clutching them tight in her hands, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her face is screwed up with pain, and Josh immediately feels his throat catch up. He rushes to switch on the lamp and kneels by the side of her bed and places a hesitant hand on her shoulder- sometimes touch scares more than it helps.</p><p> </p><p>“Donna-“ he whispers, shaking her softly. “Donna, wake up, it’s just a dream,”</p><p> </p><p>Donna’s eyes fly open, and she grabs Josh's wrist. She stares at him for a second with wide eyes, distrustful, before she just looks confused. </p><p> </p><p>“Josh?” She croaks out.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s me, you were having a nightmare, so I-“</p><p>“Where am I?”</p><p> </p><p>Josh stops. If the nightmares are that bad- </p><p> </p><p>“Your apartment. DC. You’re safe.” </p><p>“DC?” </p><p>“Yes. I stayed overnight. You had a rough day. I heard you having a nightmare and came in.” </p><p> </p><p>Donna doesn’t let go of his wrist. She turns her head slightly and looks around the room, which seems to confirm for her that she’s in DC.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” She says quietly. “I’m fine now. You can go to sleep. Sorry for waking you.” </p><p> </p><p>She falls silent. She looks pale and exhausted, shutting her eyes tight. She’s trying to push him off again. But screw that.  Josh knows exactly what he would want when this happens, so he does it. He reaches out and pushes her sweaty hair off her forehead, then goes to the kitchen to get some water and a wet towel. </p><p> </p><p>Donna is twisted into herself on her side, her head to her knees when he returns, and she looks up as he enters. </p><p>She’s crying.</p><p>“Oh, I thought you went back to bed.” She says thickly, hastily scrubbing at her eyes. She thought he’d left her. Again. God, he’s got to stop doing that. </p><p> </p><p>“No! I just went to get you some water. Here, sit up.” </p><p> </p><p>Donna complies and dutifully sips at the water while Josh fixes the sheets and blankets. He wants to give her some space to recover, but what happened this evening is also the product of him giving her too much space, so maybe it’s time to try the other approach. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to her. She hugs her good knee to her chest and stretches out the other leg, flush with his hip.</p><p> </p><p>“Wanna talk about it?” He asks, handing her the wet towel. She silently wipes down her face and shakes her head. </p><p>“No,” she says. </p><p>“It helps to talk about it.” Josh coaxes gently. “When Stanley told you that, you made me call you after every nightmare.” </p><p>She laughs wetly and Josh plucks a tissue from the box on her dresser and hands it to her. </p><p>“I guess I feel like mine aren’t important, somehow,” she says quietly. </p><p> </p><p>Josh immediately wants to tackle her, demand to know who made her feel unimportant, but somehow, he already knows the answer. He swallows the lump in his throat and takes a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s absolutely not true.” He says steadily. “I wish you told me. I wish I had realized.”  </p><p>“It’s fine.” Donna says. She rubs at her eyes. “I-It’s just been a rough few months.” </p><p>“I’m really sorry.” Josh says. He tries to stow away his stupid guilt complex. God, maybe he stopped going to therapy too soon. “Tell me.” </p><p> </p><p>She does. It all spills out, and it’s like they’re as comfortable as they used to. She can’t sleep. She can’t eat. She gets angry at everyone. She can’t even listen to CJ’s briefings. Josh tries to stay calm, as she finishes talking about the most recent incident of yelling at an intern.<br/><br/></p><p>“I’m so sorry.” Josh says softly. Donna is looking down, picking at the blanket. “I’m sorry it’s been so awful and I didn’t realize.” </p><p> </p><p>Donna shrugs. </p><p>“I didn’t want to realize. Somehow, I sort of felt like I wasn’t important enough.” </p><p>“God, Donna, you are important-” </p><p>“No, Josh, you don’t get it.” She says, sitting up straight. “I’m not. There were five people in that car. Two Congressmen, the former chairman of the Joint Chiefs-“ </p><p>He can already see where she’s going with this.</p><p>“Donna-“</p><p>“I’m just an assistant! I’m nobody! Why did I survive, out of everyone? Why-“</p><p> </p><p>She takes a deep, shuddering breath. </p><p> </p><p>“Why am I alive?” </p><p> </p><p>And she bursts into tears. </p><p>Josh is rooted to the spot for a second.</p><p> </p><p>And then he looks up and realizes Donna is wrapping her arms around herself as she sobs, and Josh doesn’t know how many nights this exact scene has played out, with her alone in her grief, but it’s probably a lot. </p><p>Not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>He leans forward and wraps his arms around her, drawing her tightly to him, and lets her weep against him. She grabs onto his t-shirt and holds on for dear life, digging her nails into the material, and Josh tries to pretend he’s not crying, too. </p><p> </p><p>After a few minutes, when the shoulder of his shirt is completely soaked and her sobs have died down to the occasional sniffles, Donna pulls back. </p><p>She looks embarrassed, tries to wipe at her eyes and look anywhere but Josh. He lifts her chin up until she’s looking directly at him, eyes an incredibly bloodshot blue. </p><p>“You didn’t deserve to die, Donna.” He says firmly. She immediately looks away, and Josh gently makes her look up again. </p><p> </p><p>“Listen to me. You didn’t deserve to die. I don’t know why you survived. I wish I knew what it happened to you, of all people, in the first place, but you didn’t deserve to die. I just, I prayed to God from the minute I saw that explosion on the screen-“</p><p> </p><p>Josh's voice breaks, and he can feel the tears running down his cheek. He looks down for a moment, and feels a soft hand on his cheek. Donna pushes his chin back up. She’s biting her lip, crying again. </p><p> </p><p>“I-I prayed until you were home safe. I thank God every day you survived. Not important enough? Christ, Donna, you’re the only important thing there is.” </p><p>She bursts into tears again, and Josh is immediately searching for tissues. </p><p> </p><p>“Donna-“</p><p>He wraps her back up in a hug until she quiets. When she pulls back, wipes at her face, Josh holds her head with both hands and kisses her forehead, right below the scar. </p><p>“Promise me you’ll call Stanley tomorrow?” He asks, thumbing a tear off her cheek. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Joshua,” She says. “I will.” </p><p>“Okay. Try and get some sleep?” </p><p>She nods. </p><p>He gets up to return to the living room, but at the doorway hears Donna say-</p><p>“Josh, wait,"</p><p> </p><p>He turns back. She looks oddly small, hugging a pillow to her chest, her face still swollen red. </p><p>“Would you- could you stay?” She looks down at the blankets. “I-I don’t want to be alone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” He says softly. </p><p> </p><p>He slides into the other side of the bed, trying to give her space if she wants it. She doesn’t have the same idea. As soon as he’s settled under her floral covers, pulling a pillow under his head, she moves until she’s flush with him, her head on his chest, her hand on his stomach. Josh wraps an arm around her, pulls her closer, if that's possible. </p><p><br/>This is not new. This is ancient. If he lost every other memory inside his head, he would still remember this. </p><p> </p><p>Josh turns out the light, and they lay in the darkness for a minute, which now seems more inviting than all-encompassing. </p><p>“When you were recovering-” Donna breaks the silence, clutching his t-shirt between her fingers. “I used to just listen to your heart, make sure it hadn’t stopped.” </p><p>She’s doing it now, tapping out the beat of his heart, still pumping rebelliously, onto his rib cage. </p><p> </p><p>“I prayed too.” She whispers. </p><p> </p><p>Josh kisses her forehead again. There’s a lot of emotions inside of him he hasn’t yet figured out, but this one, this desperate <em> hodaya </em> that she is still here, still alive, that one’s crystal clear. Donna relaxes into him, and her breathing evens out, so Josh closes his eyes. </p><p>He's out within seconds. It's the best sleep either of them have gotten in months. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hodaya- thanksgiving</p></blockquote></div></div>
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